Dash of pride seasons a chef's first dish

Steve Barnes

Updated 4:16 pm, Wednesday, June 5, 2013

STEVE BARNES/TIMES UNION
Endour knows the theory behind why an ingredient should be cut in same-size pieces: "So they all cook at the same rate." But precision occasionally escapes him while chopping, as with these potato pieces.
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"You have a test today," I told Endour as the 11-year-old from my neighborhood climbed into my car and we headed to the supermarket.

We've been cooking together on most Saturday mornings since late summer, creating food ranging from New England clam chowder and fresh bread to pizza, stir-fried noodles, paella, gourmet grilled cheese, brownies and endless variations on chicken or fish with vegetables. (Endour's family doesn't eat red meat or pork.)

But he'd never conceived and cooked a dish on his own. It was time.

"We'll use chicken as the base," I said. "You can pick five other items. They have to be fresh, raw ingredients — no boxed mixes or prepared foods. And it needs to be a complete, nutritious main dish, so that means vegetables and starch in addition to the chicken."

His eyes grew wide.

"Once I decide what to get, then what do I do?"

"You cook it."

"All by myself?"

"I'll step in if you look like you're going to cut your finger off or poison yourself, but otherwise, yes — all by yourself."

"Cool."

In the produce section, he picked up an onion. He's good at chopping onions, usually.

"Which one will make me cry the least?"

"Vidalia."

Into the basket it went. Then hot peppers.

He said, "Onions and peppers together are always a good base. We need some color, something green."

He paused in front of a display of asparagus that was, bewilderingly, labeled "spinach."

"Wait — is that spinach? I thought spinach was leaves."

I explained the mistake, and he set off to investigate bagged spinach. Asparagus went into the basket. "I don't like pulling all those little stems off the spinach. I'd rather cut the asparagus."

In a chopping mood, he picked up a couple of potatoes. "If I cut them small, they'll cook fast, just like the other vegetables."

One ingredient to go: shrimp. He picked up a $20 box of frozen shrimp.

"Whoa," I said. "We're making one big plate. You need only a handful."

Back at home, the chef's knife came out. He's becoming adept at chopping, and he made fairly short work of the chicken and vegetables, putting each finished chop into its own prep bowl.

"I think I should cook the chicken first, right?" he said.

We discussed browning the chicken — diced pieces of boneless, skinless thigh — then removing it from the pan and adding the onions to soak up flavor from leftover juice and fat.

"Wait!" I said after he put chicken in the pan and was reaching for the salt with one hand as he absently brought the other toward his mouth. "You just touched raw chicken, and now you're about to put your fingers in the salt dish, and you almost licked your other fingers. After you touch raw meat, what's the first thing to do?"

"Wash my hands."

After the chicken was browned and set aside, in went the onions. He stirred them, watching as they softened. Most of the pieces were in an eighth-inch dice. One errant flap was almost as big as a business card. I plucked it out of the pan.

"What's this?"

"Oops."

"Why should everything be the same size?"

"So they cook at the same rate."

"Open up," I said.

He crunched down on the al-dente onion.

"It's too big," he said, grimacing.

"Exactly. That's what anyone would think if they got it on their fork."

After the vegetables were well on their way, Endour added the chicken back to the pan, stirred in the quick-cooking shrimp, seasoned with salt and pepper, and gave it a taste.

"I know what it needs: hot sauce," he said, opening the fridge for the bottle of cherished sriracha sauce, which we tend to add to almost all of our cooking projects. Generous squirt, stir, taste. "That's better."